TWENTY
Pamela woke early and lay in the dark. It was all right to admit it in the dark. So she did. She screwed her eyes up tight and admitted to herself that not only was she alone, she was lonely. Margie told her she would be, and Margie was right. Damn her. She, mother of Daniel, was turning into what Daniel would call a Sad Old Git. A Sad Old Git who went around groaning in sports shops. In the darkness of her duvet she admitted to herself that she was probably going weird.
At the end of the day what did it matter if the two blokes in her life eyed each other balefully over the morning toast? As Margie had said, ‘You’re not proposing incest and troilism. Put yourself first. One day Daniel will be gone and then you’ll wonder what all the fuss was about.’ Irritatingly accurate counsel from a woman who had never had children herself.
Oh, all right. She was lonely. Peter had not rung. Douglas certainly had not rung. And that left Dean. Who was too young. She stirred her tea and smiled the standard rueful smile that adorned her features whenever she thought of her son. Given Danny’s appalling disregard at the moment, preventing Dean from having children might be considered something of a kindness.
Well, she thought, as the pale light of dawn gave way to the stronger light of day, I have seen my mother and I know her views. I will go and see Margie and find out hers. In any case I should go down and make this Tom’s acquaintance. And she hoped that she could hide it if she found him appalling. She shivered at the memory of the sports shop. She would go down and see Margie that very night.
The first thing Pamela noticed when she walked into Margie’s cottage was its neatness. And the lack of cigarette smoke. Then the man’s jacket and cap hanging from a hook in the hall, along with Margie’s outdoor clothes – a sight which made her burn with envy. And then, more transformed than all these, Margie herself. Gone was the cascading hair and the bright, generous mouth. In its place was a sober version. Hair held back in a velvet bow, make-up discreet, and several pounds thinner. It did not altogether suit her, though any weight loss between them was always a matter of green-eyed congratulation. But, Pam thought, it made her look a little gaunt. She was also, very uncharacteristically, wearing an apron.
They kissed. ‘My God,’ said Pam, ‘you look great.’
‘My God,’ said Margie, ‘you look fed up.’
‘Thanks.’
They looked at each other again. ‘I’m glad I came,’ said Pam. Behind her an owl hooted and made her jump.
‘Townie,’ said Margie. ‘Go and bring your bag in from the car.’
‘I’m not staying, unfortunately.’
Margie looked really disappointed.
‘Sorry,’ she said, pulling a face. ‘But I’ve got to open up tomorrow. Jenny and the Amazon are off on a job.’
This was not entirely true. They were going to see Zoe and Lionel, but not until midday. The real reason she was not staying was that she feared her strange state. How would she react to seeing her friend, whom she had never envied before, now in this enviable position? If her feelings on seeing the cap and coat were anything to go by, not very well. Before, she was always the one with the career, the son, the balanced life.
‘Come on in, then, and close the door,’ said Margie.
The place was cosy as ever. Margie always reminded her of a sleepy, cream-eating cat.
‘Are you sure you can’t stay?’
‘Positive. Sorry.’
No, she was not ready for that. In the mornings she and Margie used to sit in bed together, with their eyes closed, sipping tea and communicating what little skipped in and out of their fuddled brains. Now Margie would be sitting up in bed with someone else. Pam would be alone in the spare room. And she was not ready for that. She begrudged her friend nothing, but she was sure she was not yet ready to see and celebrate this new-found intimacy of hers. Not until she had got something sorted out for herself. Something. Or someone.
‘I really can’t,’ she said, bright and loud for the benefit of any third party who might be listening.
For he would be there, of course. She had steeled herself for that. She would meet Tom tonight and from there on in Margie would become part of a couple.
She looked beyond Margie towards the kitchen, expecting to see The Man.
Margie said, ‘I’ve sent him back to his place for the night.’ And then, a little sheepishly, she added, ‘Well, he didn’t need a lot of persuading. I said we hadn’t seen each other for a few months and that we had a lot of talking to do, and he got a sudden, desperate desire to go over to his old place and lag the pipes.’
They walked through into the kitchen. Though neater than usual, it held the standard prerequisites of an opened bottle of red wine and two glasses.
‘Isn’t that dangerous?’ asked Pam. ‘If his wife’s still in residence?’
‘Oh, he’s still bonking her,’ said Margie, pouring wine, not looking up.
Pamela sat down and stared. ‘Pardon?’ she said.
Margie sat down. She pushed a glass across to Pam. ‘We’ll have something to eat in a minute.’
That was another change. The house smelled of cooking.
‘I’ve got a casserole in the oven,’ said Margie.
They looked at each other, compressing their lips.
‘You’ve what?’ asked Pam.
‘You heard.’ Margie was fiddling with her glass stem. ‘Rabbit.’
‘Is that a command or the contents of the stew?’
Their eyes met and they burst out laughing in relief.
‘Casseroles? Oh, Marge,’ said Pam, when they had recovered a little.
‘And I’ve given up smoking,’ she said proudly, immediately producing a packet of ten cigarettes from a pot high up on the dresser. She lit up thoughtfully. ‘When Tom’s around, anyway.’
‘Are you happy?’ asked Pam. Her envy at this new romance was diminishing moment by moment.
‘What’s happy? Sometimes yes, sometimes no. But at least something is happening at last.’
At what cost? thought Pam. But she kept it to herself. ‘Does he really still sleep with his wife?’
She nodded. Her face bore the message, Don’t criticize. Pamela knew that face. She first saw it when they were teenagers and Margie told her she was going to leave school, just like that, and be an actress. Another bad decision.
‘Will he leave her for good?’
Margie shrugged. ‘He doesn’t talk about it.’ Back came the look. ‘“Oh, what it is to love ... But – how want of love tormenteth. . .” Venus and Adonis. You can’t say fairer than that.’ She got up and put some plates to warm in the oven. She was an actor to her bootstraps and looked as if she had been wearing an apron and baking things for years.
‘Come on,’ she said. ‘Let’s talk about you.’
Later, leaning back and smiling, Margie said, ‘Well, personally I don’t think leopards change their spots, but if you think you have changed – it might work.’
Pam thought of the sports shop. She had changed. She was in need.
‘Of the three of them, Douglas is the one, of course. You were mad to end it. He was the love of your life.’
‘And the pain of it,’ said Pam.
‘No gain without pain,’ said Margie.
Occasionally Pam felt like slapping her.
‘Well, why not someone completely new? This Lionel?’
‘Because his bedside manner was more doctorly than seductive.’
‘Are you saying you want someone who is both nice and lustful? Not a hope.’ She lit a cigarette, drew in smoke as if it were pure oxygen, and blew it around her thoughtfully. Then she sat forward. ‘Oh, go for Douglas. You gave up the passion of your life when you gave him up.’
‘My mother thinks I should get back with Peter.’
Margie pulled a face of extreme distaste.
‘Rick thinks I should get back with Dean.’
‘Too temporary,’ said Margie. ‘Douglas. Douglas. I always fancied him myself.’
Pam was shocked. But also rather amused. ‘Did you now?’
‘I did,’ said Margie positively. ‘And I certainly couldn’t say the same about the other two.’
They both looked out of the window. It was inky dark and it calmed the atmosphere between them.
Eventually Pam said, ‘I can’t face trying someone new. Because it is all such an effort anyway. And I still might end up with something worse. Three seems possible. Three seems just about the number I can cope with. I could have dinner with them. Nothing more if I didn’t want to. . .’
‘It’s like something out of a fairy story,’ said Margie thoughtfully. ‘You know – which casket will you choose?’
‘I was identifying more with Ernest. I can just hear Lady Bracknell saying, “To have dinner with one ex is unfortunate, but to have dinner with three is. . .”’
‘Three free dinners?’
Which they both found satisfactorily funny.
‘Anyway – what’s free in this life?’ said Pamela.
Margie went serious. ‘Ah. Exactly.’
‘Freedom’s just another word for nothing left to lose,’ sang Pam.
They were both silent for a moment, contemplating this philosophical truth.
Then Margie got up and began serving the food, cutting up bits of hot bread as if it had done her serious wrong. It was a strange sight. Pam watched for a moment and then said, ‘Neither of us wants to end up on our own, do we?’
‘No,’ said Margie, crashing down the pot lid. ‘But you’ve got a better prospect than I have. You’ve got the future. I’ve been on my own so long that I had to grab a passing husband. Even if he was somebody else’s. You’ve got a family. You really are someone.’
‘I’ve got a mother who’s put herself in an old folk’s home out of preference –’ they both let that one sink in for a moment – ‘a randy son in Liverpool whose randy girlfriend thinks I am senile, and an interior design business that has turned into a middle-class wank.’
‘So? What do you expect from all your sacrifices? Happiness?’
Yes, thought Pam, yes, I do rather.
She began to eat. It was good.
‘Tom likes his food,’ said Margie, not meeting her eyes. ‘I went on a cookery course.’
‘What?’
‘None of us wants to be on our own,’ she said. ‘And we therefore have to do something about it.’
‘You always said domestic skills were –’
‘What I always said and what I now do are two different things. Much like you.’
‘Oh?’
‘If you ring those three up and ask them out. Whatever happened to, Never again, I swear it, never again?’
One thing about Margie – she was direct. Damn her.
Pamela said, ‘I wish I was like Ani Patel. She copes with everything. Even those oddballs hovering around in her shop. They always make me feel privileged. I’m not so sure now.’
‘We’re all the same underneath,’ said Margie. ‘But you wouldn’t want to be her. Not really. Ani Patel is a saint. And you know she never met her husband until the day she married him?’ She was looking at Pamela as if this was a very significant statement.
‘What does that prove?’
‘They made up their minds it would work, whatever happened. Or she made up her mind. And it did. Like me with Tom. I just decided that whatever happened, it would be all right. And it is. You wouldn’t be like that.’
Pamela said, ‘Ani Patel’s husband died after twelve years, and you’ve only known Tom for three months . . .’
‘And a half.’
‘One man half-in, half-out, and you think you’re the bloody goddess of wisdom.’ She poured herself another drink, although she had not meant to.
Margie said quietly, ‘But I was right about Douglas, wasn’t I?’
‘He’s the one that worries me,’ said Pam thoughtfully.
‘The one that worries me is all of them,’ said Margie, lighting up again, the food pushed to one side. ‘Here you are, free if nothing else, and you’re thinking of shacking up with Peter again? Or putting yourself back in the loony bin for Douglas? Or getting IVF at the age of ninety-two so Dean Close can have a son and heir. . .?’
‘I am not.’
‘What?’
‘Ninety-two.’
They laughed.
‘But why would you have dinner with Peter?’
‘Company? Familiarity? Security.’
‘And Douglas?’
‘Love. Passion.’
‘And Dean?’
‘I liked his company. And it was easy.’ She paused. ‘And sex,’ she said quietly. ‘Unencumbered sex.’
‘You disgust me,’ said Margie. ‘What’s sex to a woman nearing fifty?’
Before Pam could answer, the telephone rang.
Margie jumped up, crushing out her cigarette and practically standing to attention when she picked up the receiver. She spoke in softly hallowed tones. ‘Of course,’ she repeated. ‘Of course,’ and, ‘You poor baby. It’s fine. Absolutely fine. No. Really. I’ll ask her if she minds. I’m sure she’ll understand. Oh, no. Oh, no. You must.’
When she replaced the phone she lit another cigarette and laughed. ‘He says he wants to come back here tonight after all. They’ve had a terrible row . . .’ She clapped her hands, scattering ash everywhere, including all over the rabbit casserole. She peered into it, poking about at the bits. ‘I said I’d save him some of this,’ she said dubiously. ‘Oh, well, what he doesn’t know can’t kill him.’
‘What happened to Miss Sensitive and the Poor Baby?’ asked Pam drily.
‘Sod off,’ she said. ‘Anyway, he offered to wait another hour so that we could finish our talking before coming back. And I said I’d ask you if you minded going home after all. Because he’s so upset.’ She hooted with merriment, an owlish noise remarkably reminiscent of Pam’s arrival.
‘But I’m going home anyway.’
‘I know that,’ said Margie, rolling her eyes in similar manner to The Girlfriend. ‘But he doesn’t know that. He will therefore now think that I’ve made a huge sacrifice just for him, and I’ll have lots of Brownie points. Oh, Pam – don’t you know anything?’
‘I know that I’m a woman who’s made a lot of sacrifices and someone else appears to have cleaned up on the Brownie points.’
Margie pulled a face and picked at the casserole again.
‘Don’t get bitter,’ said Margie, winking. ‘Get even. And while we’re at it, if you do have dinner with them – make sure they pay.’
‘Margie, you are a disgrace.’
‘Pamela, I am pragmatic.’
‘Anyway,’ said Pam, rising with both dignity and envy and pointing at the telephone, ‘that Brownie-point stuff. It is so dishonest.’
‘Pamela?’ said Margie sternly. ‘Have you joined the Moonies?’